I found this today and although a little gory, I thought it was kind of cool. It was an assignment that was supposed to be modeled after an Edgar Allen Poe short story.
Although the day was particularly chilled and the air was heavy with an unusually bothersome burden as opposed to generally lighthearted circumstances, barefoot as I was walking along this trail and as I had done so many times before, I found myself at unrest with the abnormal feeling which confronted my senses and reached into my toes. The pebbles, for one, considering that the sun still shone with its unconditional covering, were frigid and piercing into the soles of my once considered calloused feet and they no longer took upon the role of being relaxing to my spirit for which being the very reason I found myself on this trail in the first place. Two, my ears seemed to have gone deaf with the eerie silence and stillness which began to pervade all thought and consciousness. I remember the smiles that always crossed my face as the children ran and played across my path and tugged at my ankles to join in their gaiety and then it struck me – like a pebble to my conscience and a bullet to my temple – that this path no longer served as a playground to the youth and the innocent, at least not today.
Suddenly, as the pebbles still left chills in my spine and tingling in my fingertips and when it seemed the silence could get no louder, I heard a piercing but rather distant screaming from my immediate right, but when I turned there was none as far as I could see through the trees. Walking on towards a destination that my presence was not even worthy of, probably reason why this trail has doubled in length since I last stepped foot, there was this imminent feeling of anxiousness; my lungs were filled and tense with an urge to scream myself. Then, the victim of that massacre screamed again. I should have ran and called for help, but where would I find help when there was not a soul as far as the eye could see? What good will help do in this desolation anyway, considering that they’d obviously never find the victim? Not to mention, what good will Samaritan efforts do coming from the least of Samaritans himself? Now though, it was my conscience tugging at my ankles, struggling with its innocent effort to persuade me to do what he and I knew was right. As always before though, I walked on.
Hours later, as my mind perceived each reckless but steady ticking of the time, upon reaching my destination I found myself at a calm but rather swell log cabin. The keeper was, like all others, nowhere to be found so to the best of my knowledge I was alone, except for the perpetual screaming that rang through the trees, and ached at the wood, and rattled at the nerves of my teeth. With each step I made toward the door as it entered my sight, the anxiousness began to build and tighten around my throat, pulling at each rib of my chest and being. The tugging at my ankles had never ceased but by this time I had convinced myself that the screaming was just one of nature’s many mysteries and no help could prevent or foil its course. I reached out for the doorknob that finally found its place in front of me and to my surprise, as I expected exactly the opposite but then again all expectations vanish in nature, the knob was hot. It did not take part in the subtle and chilled nature of that particular day but rather played the role of alarm and danger. My only reasoning to which I began to twist the knob anyway was that if there were no one for miles and if the place was as desolate as the landscape conveyed, then danger there was none. Then again, there was the screaming.
As I creaked open the door, each decisive movement more hesitant than before, I peeked in with yet another failed expectation to see some figure staring at me with a double-barrel threatening all that was left of my shriveled and deteriorated being. What I instead saw was that everything was in precisely the place as it had been left before, shiny with the recent presence of the keeper. Oh, but there was the heat! The blast of waves which struck me as I entered the room were even more suffocating than the invisible waves which continued to tug at me evermore, but did absolutely nothing to melt away the anxiety which now had control of me.
First thought: I was completely famished and my second stop after cutting the groan of the window heater was the kitchen. Angry with myself for letting such foolishness permeate all logic, I remembered why exactly I had come here. To run away from all society was my only agenda and that I had achieved, but it seems society had other plans, for society had not run away from me. It trod at my heels, steady with each begrudging footstep that I made down my path and across the hardened floor; it followed me, only to remind me that this wasn’t the place I belonged. How to handle this new realization and what to do defeated me, which only heightened my anger, but through a bit of logic I realized there was a list of priorities and the persecution of society was not at the top. First and foremost, I was famished and my current concern was the growling from the pit of my stomach as I inhaled the hastily made plate of scrounges from the pantry.
Tired from my trek and finally full after a few more hasty servings, I stumbled into my room, but did not allow myself to sprawl out across the bed as I was tempted to do. Instead, I folded back the covers carefully and removed the bloody blade from its holster in my belt. Under my pillow it was placed and as I laid my head to rest in this pillow of my sanctuary now turned prison and closed my eyes to envelop myself in the darkness of slumber, I flinched with one last response to the screaming that cradled my thoughts. Then there was the tap on my shoulder and I slowly turned over to find myself facing the one whom I had thought was forever lost as the blood dripped heavily onto my sheets. I screamed back.
This was the Aftermath.